Portaged in Portland

I think that I've already made a Portlandia Dream of the 90s reference on my blog. So I'll skip that, even though I just re-watched the video and I still find the song to be quite catchy. Even after visiting Portland.

During my first visit to Portland, I came across a t-shirt at a tourist kiosk, it had a picture of Grumpy Cat, with the inscription “I went to Portland once, it rained.” Well, I went to Portland and it rained. All day. Cold, miserable, unending rain.

And we had no real plans or goals, beyond some vague intentions of finding interesting places to eat. So I suggested that we just get our day pass and see where the train would take us. That actually seems to be my standard answer to the question of “What do you do in a strange city?”. Portland's Max Light Rail has 4 lines. Red and Blue run mostly east and west. Green and Yellow are more north and south. Ish. All four meet in the center of town and share a lot of the same tracks. In all, they cover a fair portion of the city.

I was wearing my Jayne's Town shirt that day. As a quick description, because it comes into play, it has a picture of a Skull sporting a Jayne Cobb goatee and hat. Across the top there is the inscription “Heroes of Canton”. I love the shirt, as I love firefly, and wear it often.

Oh hey, one thing I found out, people in Portland notice your t-shirt. And strike up a fucking conversation. What the holy hell fucking fuck? I mean I like to let my geek flag fly, but my socially awkward ass doesn't want to interact, and I'm usually too polite to ignore people when they make an attempt to create a connection.

But interact I did.

My first oppressor was from Utah, as we took the train in to find breakfast, and he was a fan of Firefly. We had a chat about the show, and then he tried to sell me on owning my own business. Not sure if he was going to move into providing said business. I wasn't interested. Still am not. But hey, this would be the best conversation I'd have that day.

We found a small breakfast place that was nearish the train and trudged through the rain. Don't remember the name of the place, but I ordered plate Banana chocolate pancakes. And ate Most of them. They were so damn rich and sugary that finishing was impossible. It was a fair attempt on my part. But I was defeated.

Outside, the rain continued. That wouldn't change for the remainder of the day.

Our next stop was the Chinese Garden and Tea Room. I was cold and wet. But the beauty of the gardens still managed to shine through and allow me to forget some of my discomfort. We tried some of their tea. It was pricey, and I didn't really want to spend the money at that point, but peer pressure. The tea was interesting. If I were a resident of Portland, I might consider a semi-cyclical visit to sample more of their teas. I love tea.

My second Visitation of the Ghost of Portland Now came as we took the Red/Blue Line all the way out to it's westernmost stop. I shall call La Senorita Del Craneo. Known here out as Craneo. Mayhaps she was attracted to the strong silent type, of which I am, if you downgrade “Strong” to “Moderately Stable”.

Craneo noticed my shirt. See, I told you it was important. People in Portland pay attention to shit like that. Even the visitors. Must be something in the air.

She pointed at her head and said “I have one of those.” And I wonder to this day what would have happened if I had responded “Well I don't, someone stole my skull. Are you using yours?” But that wasn't even in the queue of potential responses. Because really, how often does a strange woman on the train start a conversation of which the crux is her having a basic bit of essential anatomy? I would like to know, as my brief experience in Portland leads me to believe that it is a daily occurrence, perhaps even multiple times a day.

I don't recall the full details of the conversation. I was too busy devoting my limited brain power to trying to find an escape route. Meanwhile, Sara and Adam were enjoying the show. Fucking Lannisters.

La Senorita Del Craneo finally broke off. Maybe she found my conversation to be less than inspiring. I did my best, but calculating the benefits of chewing through my ankle to escape was a bit of a distraction. But she wandered down the train to spread her good cheer to the other travelers. Praise The Sun!

Adam chose that moment to reveal his current passion, which happened to be for the works of Chuck Tingle. If you don't know who Mr. Tingle is, by all means look him up, his wikipeida page is a treasure to be cherished by all of Humanity, past, present and future. At the very least Google Chuck Tingle Books. I won't mind if you get distracted and fail to finish my tale. In fact, I will count that as a win.

Adam initiated us in the joy of Chuck Tingle by hipping us to the list of the man's writings that had been collected on the wikipedia page. High point of the day. How can you not read a name like “Space Raptor Butt Invasion”, or “Pounded in the Butt by the Existential Dread that you are a Character in a Chuck Tingle Novel” and not smile a little?

Chuck's antics helped to fill the train ride with much needed mirth. Walking around downtown Portland would grind away that little bit of happiness soon enough, as the damp blanketed us and drained our will. And Portland herself.

Back in town we zeroed in on the foodtrucks and scored lunch. I got some Indian. It was bland. A word that I usually don't associate with Indian food. Maybe I just had bad luck. And I didn't order the spicy option, as I was still feeling a bit wary. Really, the las thing I needed here was a repeat of my desecration of the Asian Art Museum.

The last time I had visited the food trucks was with my friend a few years back. She wanted me to experience the full magisty of the food truck experience. I walked around the block at least four times before I picked up some Thai. It was par excellence. Which seemed to be the theme of the trip. Sometimes it's better not to compare.

Powell's City of Books. If there is one place I'd like to take refuge during a zombie apocalypse, this is it. To hell with those kids and their fancy mall and their food and guns. Give me a bookstore that sits atop a full city block! It was like a maze of goodness, and I never wanted to leave. We left.

Powell's was bustling that night. Sunday in Portland and people were hanging around in a book store. I love Portland for this. A platonic love to be sure. We can be friends and hang out, we just will never be in a serious relationship. Which leaves me feeling a little sad. But there is always the one that got away.

Adam and I wandered around Portland going too and fro, up and down the streets, just getting a feel for the city. I think we made it as far as the 405 before turning back. We had no particular direction and just popped into various buildings that took our interest. Museums, shops, etc. I admired a statue of Theodore Roosevelt for a while, which left me gleefully surprised.

The Library called us, promising relief from the rain. In we went and wandered upwards towards the sound of music, to find a concert being played on the top floor. One largely being enjoyed by an audience of the homeless.

Seattle had a fair share of homeless people. Far many more than I am used to in the midwest. Strange that, a place that has a mild climate year round and a decent public transport system attracts the people who are forced to live on the streets. I think Portland is their Mothership. They crowd the corridors with colorful tents and crouch, hiding from the weather.

People ask for money left and right. I gave out much more spare change than I usually do. I wonder if that's how traveling affects me, with some extra sense of generosity. Though, I suspect that some of that had to do with the fact that I was actually carrying physical cash.

They were everywhere, and as an outsider I don't want to judge their performance against such a daunting task as feeding and housing such a multitude.

That brings me to the third and final t-shirt admirer. Adam and I took the Yellow line north. When we. Or rather I. Sat down across from a mildly homeless gentleman. He saw my shirt and he of course broached the subject. “You from Canton, Ohio?”

“Not I sir. Not I. But I am from the midwest.” And then I tried to explain the meaning of the shirt. He looked at me like the nerd that I am. Not with disdain, but more along the lines of boredom. We chatted some, he told stories, he liked Portland and Seattle and was intending to visit Alaska. He was from Buffalo New York(thus why he asked about Canton, as that would make us neighbors? Maybe. He said he knew members of the band Cannibal Corpse.

He offered to show us around Portland. I could see that in my mind's eye, following the dude to the end of the line to get a glimpse of the camp that was his home. And then the knifing. “I'm gonna be murdered!” was the reoccurring drumbeat in my brain. How the fuck is it that I can say stupid shit and alienate people I like, but be unable to use the full focus of my social awkwardness to stave off unwanted advances by complete strangers? What kind of bullshit personality flaw did I get saddled with? Roll to fail, natural 1.

Balls.

4 or so stops from the end of the line, and my taking my first steps in having my skin turned into a tent, Sara texted to let us know she was done with her chores. So, we never got out the the end of the yellow line. All without being turned into a sex-mummy in the woods.

Back together, we decided to head in the opposite direction, and ride down the Green Line. And it wasn't much better. We found ourselves seated next to some rather unpleasant folks, listening to their delightful tales of crimes and drugs and domestic violence. All the good stuff in life. We got off the train and headed back towards downtown.

I hit a low point in the trip. Being cold, hungry and otherwise miserable seems to do that. I wonder how well I would deal with venturing to soggy old England. Or true adversity?. One that left us wanting to just cut our losses and see if we could fly back early. We couldn't. Not without paying a rather large fee. So we stuck it out.

By dinner time we had already run out of inspiration for new adventures, so we stopped for pizza in a place called Sizzle Pie. It rated well and seemed easy. We passed by other fine tourist attractions that Sunday evening. The rain remained steady, even so Voodoo Donuts had a score or so people waiting in line. For donuts. On we went, not daring to fall into that trap. Not yet.

I was feeling a helluva lot better as digestion infused me with warmth. It was as if the rest of the misery was sluiced away in the rain as we hoofed it back to the nearest train stop. Along the way, we came across a hat store. And of course I went in. I love the idea of hats. The more absurd the better. I harbor a dream of one day owning a top-hat.

What foils me in this dream you ask? I know myself too damn well. I like the idea of hats, but not really the reality. I would never wear that top-hat, and thus it would be just a rather expensive souvenir. I ended up walking out of the store with a grey fedora looking hat. One that was water proof. I call it my Adventure Hat, and it probably makes me look like a complete and utter douche. No matter, I am a firm believer in truth in advertising.

In Between a Attled Sea and a Port.

All good things must eventually come to an end. I don't know who invented that phrase, but it has long since passed into the cliché bargain bin. If it were a movie, it would be Beastmaster 3. And I still can't resist picking it up and using it myself. Also like Beastmaster 3.

Our last meal in Seattle was I think one of the beast breaking of fast that I've ever had. I went with a roast beef hash that was the special for the morning. It was either that, or the Chorizo biscuits and gravy. For me, this was my Sophie's Choice moment, and that is without a bit of hyperbole. Not a jot. Big decision.

As a rule of life, if it sounds good, always go with the special.

We checked out of our hotel and I was reacquainted with how hill-infested the region actually is. And as I lugged my 50 pound bag the two miles between us and our destination at King Street Station,I kicked myself along the way for not bringing along a backpack. Nope. I had to opt for the duffel bag. Stupid. Fortunately my arms are big and muscular. Unfortunately the previous statement is a lie.

The train was late. Go Amtrak! Nothing else to add to that. We just got/had to hang around the train station for a couple hours longer than we had planned. Alls well, the décor was worth an extra gander and I got some good pics before they called us to board the train.

I had been looking forward to the train ride since booking the trip. A train seemed like an easy way to get out and enjoy the scenery, as it passed your window at 60 miles per hour. I was facing backwards, and the weather was overcast and foggy. Foggy and overcast. I don't need to make that tire ass Seattle joke do I? Because I will. No joke is too tired for me.

The very first thing I noticed as we made our final approach into Portland were the garbage streams. Not literal rivers of garbage, but streams of refuse that seemed to be flowing down hill. As if a landfill got all biblically gone done pulled a flood and then just projectile vomited its inner secrets unto the world. That was what the road to Portland looked like. Trashslides and rubbivulets.

Behold the beauty of the Pacific North West in all of its splendor!

The station we arrived at lacked the grandeur of the one we had left behind, it was much more utilitarian and pedestrian. Which in retrospect seems fitting and an apt metaphor for a comparison between the two cities. Odd, as Portland has somewhat of a reputation for being a wild and weird frontier city. You would expect their public buildings to reflect that more.

To be honest, Oregon as a whole struck me with a similar vibe. Like they had been a meeting point between hippie and cowboy and created some sort of self-hating mutant hybrid. Or maybe a pair of siblings that both thought that they alone should inherit the estate. Oregon is a weird place. I liked it.

The weather was sunny and beautiful. Which is exactly how I remembered Portland. The one time I visited. Three years ago. For about 1 day, before I shuffled off to Eugene to hang out with the one person I really wanted to fly across the country to see. Didn't see her again this time. I made missteps and things seemed awkward. I don't seem to have the social wherewithal necessary to unawkward the whole mess.

I am pretty good at regret though. And revisiting embarrassing memories. I'm tops at that. Shit, I should get a medal.

So yeah. Portland.

We didn't spend much time wandering around down town.  Only stopping briefly to pose for a photo near a giant eye sculpture.  A giant eye sculpture with a steering wheel and captain's chair.  Eye Eye Captain.

 Because fuck that. Remember the whole “I'm carrying a bag thing from earlier”? Yeah, touristing can wait. Once again, we hopped the train and rode the rails. All the way up to the hotel that I stayed at during my last visit. I recalled it was clean, near the airport, and a half block away from the Red Line.

The rest of the evening was going to be spent unwinding. Unwinding, on a vacation. It sounds stupid when I read aloud my words to myself. But that was what we did. We hung out in the room and watched Rifftrax on my phone, until we ventured out to eat.

The discussion followed the form of: “What about?” “No”. For a distressing amount of time. Until we chanced upon El Sombrero. What is El Sombrero you ask? Well that is a stupid question. But I'm really good at answering stupid questions, and usually with only a limited amount of condescension and sarcasm.

El Sombrero is a Mexican joint that serves “Basic no frills Mexican fare.” What I consider standard Mexican food. Combo plates that automatically come with sides of Beans and Rice.

Dude, I live in a city with a sizable Latin population. There are numerous taquerias. So I suppose that I can be argued that visiting a foodie Mecca like Portland to eat at a basic Mexican joint probably as blaspheme against some minor hipster foodie deity. And fuck that tight pants bearded asshole. Lets get us some Mexican! And not even fancy Mexican Fusion made from exotic blends of unexpected ingredients that elevates the meal from simple sustenance to an art form. An experience.

Nope. Just tacos and beans and rice.

And goddamnit was it phenomenal. If El Sombrero was here, it would be on my “Visit this place more often” list, as we bookended the day with amazing eats.

Foreshadowing and spoilers, but this was the best meal I had in Portland.

Seattle, we hardly knew you!

We broke fast at the aforementioned Biscuit Bitch. Adam felt that they were trying too hard to be edgy. I felt that Adam should shut is fucking face until the biscuits and gravy arrived, and then re-open his face and fill it with biscuits and gravy. He can go stand next to that.

We only had made any concrete plans for the evening. We signed up to take a couple tours. First the underground tour, and then the haunted Seattle ghost tour. I was excited about the first, and ambivalent towards the second.

But in the mean time, we were going to hit up the Boring Tour. Boring Tour, I know right? With a name like that I was sold immediately! Neo-hipster feed on irony!

Our path took us past the King Street Station, our portal out of Seattle and onward to the southlands, and to the International District. On the way there, I got yelled at by a homeless man who wanted to know what I was looking at. As I felt I did not wish to get stabbed by someone who was unhinged enough to yell at a random passerby, I decided I wasn't looking at anything. He too felt that this was a good choice.

My companions wanted to visit Uwajimaya in the International District. That's right, we flew thousands of miles and walked across a city to visit a supermarket. All be it, one with a rather expansive selection of goods from all over South East Asia, but still a super market. I made the best of it by taking pictures of any of the products that caught my interest. Dragon Ball Z themed beverage drinks? Damn scootin!

I listen to the Dan Carlin Hardcore History podcast. It's rather dark and brutal, most of the time, but he often offers a rather cool hypothetical: if you could get 4K HD footage of any time and place, what would you choose? For me, Yukon Gold Rush era Seattle(and Portland) are high on my list. I'd like to travel back to then and there and poke around a bit, for maybe a week or two. And hope not to get stabbed/shot/Shanghai'ed in the mean time.

That period and place fascinates me. I grew up in Alaska, so there is a connection with my past. This made me rather interested to explore the Gold Rush museum. I don't think that the content and presentation was intended for our age group. Who cares dagnabbit! History and Seattle and Alaska! Woooooh! There's gold in them there hills! ETC.

We wandered about the Pioneer area afterwards, as we waited for the Boring Tour to start. Noting several choice spots to visit. There was a glass-works, and the totem poles, and we happened to be there just in time for the unveiling of a monument dedicated to firefighters. The Utilikilt store(I did not get one, they cost about what my grocery budget is for a month).

Sara works in a library, so we made sure to hit up the main public library building. Which is well worth checking out. The architecture alone would have been enough to leave a hefty impression as by itself it is a work of art. But one that is full of books. Books and art. I'm fucking in baby, lead the way!

Adam, go stand next to that!

I won't bother describing the museum. A simple google search will provide a slew of photographs. I will say that I wish out town had the like, and we spent some time wandering around, all the way to the very top, at which there is a walkway that allows you to look down upon the vast open area, five or more stories below. The lizard portion of my brain did not appreciate me saying “nah brah, it'll be totally cool!” Fortunately, the lizard portion of my brain did not have access to the “evacuate waste” functions.

I stepped away from the edge.

This may not be a surprise, but the Boring tour was kind of a disappointment. I mean, the epiphany blind-sided me, but I'm dumb.

The information that they presented was interesting. The project was hella-cool(cutting a tunnel beneath a vibrant city? Bad ass nerditry that!) No, for some reason I had concocted the hope that they would actually let us see the machine in action. Instead we got so see models, and then were lead outside to see the entrance. Balls!

For lunch we were back at Pike Place for some Mediterranean street food. As life is about choices, and regret, we had to turn down the tantalizing German cuisine. Though I suspect that those words are seldom strung together into a single phrase. Walking on past was difficult, and something I still kick myself for as I look back through my photo album.

As we killed time before the underground tour, we found ourselves back on the shoreline. Our GPS came back with an interesting hit called “Ye Olde Curiosity Shop”. And I was intrigued. Because that has to be the most touristy tourist location that ever touristed! And so it was! The shop turned out to be something between a freak show and a souvenir stand, one that had been in business for more than a century. While I suspect that only a portion of their collection was on display, it still only ranked as the second most creepy place I'd visit that night. Even with the shrunken heads.

The underground tour. This was it. Our guide was a pretty blond who was a 4^th generation Seattle dweller. One can't really call her a native, for obvious reasons, but she has roots in the community. And it showed.

Seattle is built on mud-flats and sawdust. Literally. And after an early apocalyptic fire destroyed the first incarnation of the city, the lords of the city developed a master plan that required street level to be increased by about ten or so feet. This would involve a process of tearing down and washing away the many hills that surrounded the city, and re-using the earth to created raised road-ways. But alas, this would have taken years, and the business community didn't wish to wait. Enter the underground. The built two front entrances in the buildings as they erected them. One on what was then the ground floor, and another on the first story. And as the roads were raised, the ground floor would eventually become a sort of basement that was covered over by the side-walks. And over the years they have been used for just about every purpose imagined, both legal and otherwise. Cool place.

I hadn't realized this about myself, but it seems that I have a type. Looking back, she would be Cute, with curly hair, and have a thing for history. I had fallen for that type before. I couldn't discern our muse's marital status, due to the the bevy of rings that decorated her fingers, but I have to conclude that such a gem wouldn't be left unclaimed for very long. Onwards.

We sat down at a place called the Bookstore Bar. I felt out of place. But I often feel out of place around people. Sara met up with a friend and we had drinks and dinner as we waited for the ghost tour to start. The Bookstore bar was poorly named as the only books on display seemed to be props. Bah upon it all!

No matter, by then I was completely zonked. 3 days of waking up early and touristing and the jet lag was finally catching up with me. I cut out on the ghost tour and walked back to the hotel room, ate my second cinnamon bun thing from the Russian bakery and crashed. Tomorrow would bring a change in scenery.

Attled by the Sea, day two Electric Boogaloo

The next morning I found myself at a local cafe that papered its walls with pages from Tolstoy's Anna Karenina. I don't know why, on either account, there it was and there I was. The biscuits and gravy jumped out at me, because A) Biscuits and Gravy and B) The whole soaking in the local culture thing that you're supposed to do whilst traveling. But really, Biscuits and Gravy.

I noticed one thing about the Seattle food scene, they seem to have adopted Biscuits and Gravy as their signature dish. Out of all things, biscuits and gravy. They have a local chain called Biscuit Bitch(which is where we broke fast the next morning). I love you Seattle. You are the Rosario Dawson if cities, too cool for me, but I shall ever be your admirer from afar. All this talk of food is making me hungry. Need to score me some B&G.

Peering to the south out of our hotel window, I noticed that half a score of cranes brushed the sky in downtown Seattle. The city was was booming and expanding. That much was obvious even to a pleb such as myself. I love walking among the tall buildings. I wanted to see the heart of Seattle up close.

Our second full day was going to be devoted entirely to wandering around downtown and engaging in standard issue touristy activities. We picked up brochures and everything!

First stop on the list was the Pike Place Market. Being a Neo-Hipster, and I don't know what that means but it sounds like a cool title, I really didn't have any interest in Pike Place Market. Being a moron, I discovered that I was wrong, it is a reoccurring life lesson.

Pike Place Market is cool. There is a reason why tourist hot spots are tourist hot spots. That is because they are fucking worth seeing. The Market is just that. Originally created as a farmer's market in 1906, a place where locals could purchase fish and vegetables and the like. And it has retained this mission, adding bakeries and restaurants to the mix(or maybe they were always there).

To my eyes Pike Place seems to be a sampler plate of the city at large. A bustling zone of enterprise on the seaside. One that is infested with tourists and surrounded by the homeless. Both parties seemed to largely ignore one another's presence.

Wandering through the bustle was enjoyable. Really, who can turn down a place that tiles the bathroom with XY and (I assume) XX to differentiate between the accepted patrons? And the stores? Knick-knacks, goo-gaws and doo-dads abounded in many of the stores, as they tried to separate tourists from their money with a wide variety of souvenirables. Me? I bought a couple-three post cards as I browsed the stores and held onto my wallet. Which was tough going when I hit up the game store, and more so when I came across the used book store. Fuck yes there was a used book store. Fuck yes I went.

The book dealer hipped us to our next stop, the Seattle Art Musuem. They were having a free day. My cheap ass is all for free whilst visiting an expensive city. We sallied forth further on up the hill. Stopping at the Russian bakery to get a sort of cinnamon roll concoction. A. Hah. SEVERAL. It is absolutely amazing that I managed not to gain several pounds while on this trip. But then, spending all day walking up hill in the rain, does appear to burn calories.

The Seattle Art Museum was enjoyable. I don't wish to sound contrite by saying that. Or patronizing. I've been to the Art Institute of Detroit, and it is a far more impressive collection that was amassed in a bygone day. Not to mention the Art Institute of Chicago, a world class museum. After these grand old academies, Seattle's offering seems a mite provincial.

But Detroit is sliding into it's dotage, so perhaps Emerald City, with it's wealth, will one day surpass the Motor City, as the former approaches it's own zenith.

No. I walked through Seattle's art museum and enjoyed every step.

Lunch took us to the in house brewery at Pike's Place. Who doesn't want to cap the morning with a burger and a beer? Well for me cider. The burger was satisfying. Nothing amazing. But good. The cider on the other hand was fantastic. Wish I remembered what it was.

And I had the only real aside interaction with a human being in Seattle. Let me explain the thought. We interacted with people, servers and staff and what-not, but only on a direct business basis. What do you want, I want that, here it is. And so forth ad infinitum. But nobody else really went beyond that point.  Except our server at The Pike Brewing Company.  He commented on my awesome Bubble Bobble T-shirt.  I agreed it was awesome.  Human connection made.

Generally I'm fine with the lack of being noticed. As reclusive introvert, I try to avoid interaction with strangers. On a few occasions I even made small talk myself. Like offering game suggestions to a pretty blonde(why is it always blonds?  I prefer redheads) in the Market, and asking a group of gentlemen if their hats signified an adherence to Jayne(they did not, they were from pumpkinfest).  But I did find myself trying.  

Seattle seems kind of cold like that I've noticed.  And also, have been informed.  Something called the Seattle Cool, where people just don't want to be bothered by strangers.  I hear that they resent all the new folks for moving in and driving up costs.  For being such a liberal city, they sure do sound like a bunch of stodgy old conservatives.

Afterwards we wandered on along and came to a fine chainsaw carving of sasquatch. Yes, I did pair “fine” with “Chainsaw carving of sasquatch”. Yes, I do own and un-ironically wear a tuxedo t-shirt.

Sasquatch abetted me with both my finest and final round in my game of Hey Adam, go stand next to That! On the downside, he refused to play afterward, but on the up, I got photographic evidence of Adam clocking sasquatch's package. Boo-yah!

After lunch our little group split up. Adam joined me for a walk through the sculpture park. Which, I didn't realize that we reached until we were at the end, and I asked where it was. Adam, being somewhat more on top of things, and holding the GPS, informed me that it was behind us. I had been looking at, photographing, and commenting on the art as we walked along the beach. I just failed to string together the facts.

I'm not retarded, I'm just a little slow.

We kept on rambling. Sort of. I had a plan. Adam was just along for the ride. Ride? Stroll.

I had noticed earlier, atop the hill to the north, a large concrete structure. It looked like a relic from the past, not a ruin, but an old turn of the century building that gave off High School vibes. I wanted a closer look.

On our way up, we passed a Scientology building. No jokes there. We didn't wish to attract their ire. Where they would have opened the gates and released Kristie Alley on us. Or worse, Jenna Elfman. We passed by quietly and kept our thetans to ourselves.

I had a refrain as we walked up Queen Anne Hill, which I would later find out is the tallest hill in the city, and that mantra was “We gotta be getting close!”

You see, or you don't see as it turned out, the hill was rather steep, and it was difficult to ascertain from the bottom of one block where the end would be. And by the time we finally summited, I had stopped caring what the building was. But it was a high school, or had been. Now it was lofts. And I was tired.

On our way back to the hotel, Adam and I stopped to admire a fountain that stood within the Space Needle park. It danced and sprouted to rock music, and I took several pictures as I stood underneath the dreary clouds.

Wandering around before dinner, I snagged a lovely selfie there, underneath the Space Needle. I was giving my camera the bird. Classy yes? I intended to send that picture to anyone at work who bitched about how busy they were. I never had to use it. Dicks.

Dinner was at Dick's Drive In. A Seattle institution. Cheap burgers and fries. It was a nice break from the more expensive fare that we had been gorging on. And enough to put us to sleep when we got back to our hotel room. Well, after we stopped at a Walgreens so my companions could score some beer.

Here's a fun fact, Seattle is so fucking geeky, that the Walgreens that we visited sold board games like Forbidden Island and Munchkin. Seattle, what a cool city!  And no, I shall not be doing a Yakov Smirnov impression... In my city Walgreens has enemas and hungry hungry hippos!

Puttin the Attle in Seattle, Part 1

You know things are going swimmingly when TSA pulls you aside to do a search of your bag. It's a good thing that I don't really take much stock in portents and auspices, because that would have cast a rather dim pall on the trip to come. And I had been looking forward to seeing Seattle for so many years. Now I was going with a couple of friends.

Yes Seattle. For some reason that frontier town holds a special place in my imagination. I dreamed of moving there for a long time. It could one day happen. Only everything about reality stands in my way. But at the very least I wanted to go back West.

TSA pulled me aside and started digging through my bag. I had been asked if I had food, and replied in the affirmative. I had picked up a bag of Granola, under the assumption that I might run into some hippies and need a peace offering. I suppose that it was the Granola that tripped their alarms. Maybe they thought to find some of the sweet ganja as well, and “confiscate it for evidence.”

No dice.

The rest of the flight out was uneventful. We left early evening Eastern time and arrived on the West Coast late at night, only too relieved to crash in our ghetto hotel room with a stain that heavily resembled blood on the carpet. That was the plan, the late arrival, not the ghetto hotel room. Get there late, after a full day of work, and then enjoy the first day of vacation without a jot of travel to grind us down.

I know this is going to blow your mind, but Seattle was rainy as we arose the next morning. A cold misty drizzle that I suspect is common for the region. We broke fast at a nearby place called the Pancake Chef. I think I had the Stuffed French Toast. I know it was delicious. I would go back.

A note. Food will probably come up frequently in this rambling odyssey that would make Homer(Simpson) jealous. Food was as ever part of the reason to visit these two(Seattle and Portland) west coast cities. But since I'm lazy and am also writing 18 months after the trip, the details will be fuzzy or missing as I try to recreate the facts. You have been warned.

We jumped onto Seattle's public transit, because fuck cars. I don't want to sit in traffic, I want to see the scenery. And the train is a lot cheaper way to get from point a to b, no gas or insurance or getting lost. Though it does mean having to hoof it between stops. And Seattle is not only rainy, but also tends to be on the Hilly side. Walking up hills is for chumps. I spent a lot of time walking up hills.

The remainder of our stay in Seattle was at a hotel a half a mile from the famed Space Needle. Perfect location for a bunch of tourists, 2/3rds of whom had never been to the city before. Though it meant only getting anything like an in depth feel for that one small slice of town. Then again, we were only in Seattle for like 3 days. Barely enough time to scratch the surface of even one neighborhood.

Our first steps took us out to the Fremont neighborhood. I don't know much about it, hell, I've had to repeatedly look up the name between the first visit and my writing this. So, go visit the wikipedia page.

Fremont is speckled with sculptures, some of them fairly famous. And through our wanderings we came across some of these examples. Who doesn't like a neighborhood that randomly hosts a 16 foot tall Vladimir Lenin statue? Probably quite a few people actually, as they yell obscenities about dirty pinko commies. I found the statue amusing, and was surprised that it was there. This one doesn't do his research. But I did discover that the statue was purchased in Czechoslovakia after the fall of the communist state by a Seattle native, and then shipped back to Seattle, where he installed it. After several moves, it resides about 3 blocks away from another local landmark, the Fremont Troll(saw that too).

Iffin you have $250,000.00 the statue could be yours. If I had that much money to throw away, Lenin would be staying where he currently stands. To continue the tradition of make-overs and new paint-jobs that he regularly receives.

It was in Fremont that I developed a delightful game, one that you should all play when you travel. I call it Hey Adam, Go Stand Next to That! The rules of the game are complex but I shall do my best to explain. Say you find an object/person/bit of scenery/abstract concept that you wish to take a photo of, but you also want to see how many times you can get your friend to pose next to revolving cast of things, until they tell you to go fuck yourself.

I got a good pic of Adam and Lenin. All the better to blackmail him should he run for public office. Hey Adam, Go Stand Next to That!

We found ourselves at what my frumpy ass would describe as a Hippish Mexican restaurant in Fremont, I think it was called El Camino. It had a pleasant ambiance with an attractive hardwood interior. We were lead out onto the porch to enjoy what had cleared out to be some rather nice weather. I ordered a spicy sandwich, because I like spicy food. Sadly being used to the concept of Midwest Spicy, I was broadsided by a mac truck full of capsaicin. It was absolutely wonderful.

Back out on the streets, we caught a bus and continued our wanderings. The bus took us to the Capital Hill neighborhood, so that I might engage in the single solid goal I had for the trip. You see, most of my plans for the visit were rather nebulous see where the wind blows me type of adventure. With a single exception.

This goal was to find and visit the final resting place of one Bruce Lee. Yes, that Bruce Lee. He was born and raised in Hong Kong, came to America and somehow ended up buried in Seattle. I'm sure there is a rational explanation and good story, but fuck that noise, I'm just gonna say it's because of Aliens.

This may be a case of TMI, but spicy food tends to cause an adverse reaction throughout my innards. Think napalm enema.

The discontent started while we were on the bus, which is NEVER a good omen. And it lead me to the following meditation: Why the hell don't our cities have public toilets? Waste evacuation is an activity that every living creature on the planet engages in.

As well as a certain kind of hurried shuffle that must have given me away as a maniac who was on a mission. That mission was to locate some relief before I ruined my own vacation with the magic words “I'll have that spicy sandwich”. Which is going on my tombstone. Self-inflicted pain is the best kind.

My companions used their own brand of magic to locate relief. I believe that they called their twin spells 'cell phone' and 'internet'. Whatever. They pointed and I marched. They made jokes and I responded “Look me compadres, I am going to soil myself in a most memorable fashion if we don't get to some shelter soon.” They shut up and walked faster. It was an uphill walk, meandering somewhere between one and thirty-seven miles. The passage of time and space grows unreliable when you're battling the clock. But alas, we finally arrived at my salvation.

To the Seattle Asian Art Museum, I offer my deepest thanks. If I were a praying man, you would ever be remembered in scrolls of my internal monologue to my deity. But I'm not. And I did evil in your restroom. So I bought a ticket instead. And again I must thank you, for the beauty held within. Were you a woman, I would ask for your hand in marriage. But alas, you are not, you are a museum, so It can never be.

The Seattle Asian Art Museum sits atop a hill, and I was greeted with a rather beautiful view as I returned to the sunlight. More to the point, we were right next to the cemetery in which his most notable self resides.

Another round Hey Adam, Go Stand Next to That! Netted me a picture of a rather peeved looking Adam standing next to a large cottonwood tree. All as we found the outer edges of our destination.

Here's where desire to achieve a goal runs face first into a more powerful force. One that I call “Ah Shit, I'm Sick of Walking.” I'm pretty sure that it is a fundamental force of the universe, only slightly behind Entrophy in overall effect, but with more regret. So I didn't actually get to see the final resting place of Master Lee, but I did see the graveyard in which he was interred.

That's something right?

The walk back to the hotel in the fading afternoon sunshine was long and winding. Stop and go as we crossed streets and descended down out of the hills. We passed by grand houses and cool neighborhoods. The two high points that I recall from the trek were that of a graffitied road sign, most impressive because it was hanging 20 feet over the highway. That took an extra dose of frontier gumption that did.

The second sight was somewhat simpler, a pretty girl wearing a Bungie Software shirt.  Historically two of my favorite things. I didn't talk to her. I tried not to stare, but I admired her as we passed.  Should I have passed her by while I was in college, nothing would have been different. As is my habit.

Small change pimpin'

Ah the Wisdom Teeth Saga.  It's over now.  Here's the Finale.

I re-worked/revised/reviled the other two posts and then added my last visit.

Dry Socket to Me!

Princess Kitten here.

Ah the dentist. I am making up for time lost to their tender embrace.

The last week has lead me to an uncomfortable bit of self-knowledge.

I appear to love having masked women prod my mouth with metal instruments.

I must. I've been back to the dentist office twice since last friday. And that is what dentists, and hygienists and dental assistants appear to do. Maybe they have off hours where they aren't jabbing folk with do-hickies that they have lying about the office. There are 24 hours in a day after all? How long can the jiggery-pokery keep one entertained? Long enough to fill 20 or 30 year long careers it seems.

No clue what path this new found understanding will force me down, but I expect it will end with “Getting A Face Tattoo”. I really wonder if the more artistically inclined subset of humanity, who enjoy the whole jabby-jabby activities on the whole, go into tattooing instead of dentistry.

I felt that I was doing fantastically well the weekend after my extractions. And maybe I was. The bleeding was lessening, and I wasn't in tremendous pain. In fact, I managed to get a couple of long hikes in over the course of two really beautiful days(seriously, sunny and 50 degrees in Febuary?). So all was well.

All I had to look forward to, was getting my sutures removed on the following Friday, and I was home free. And then the pain didn't stop. In fact, it got worse. Imagine someone slowly pressing a screw-driver into your temple. And then just leaving it there for hours upon hours.

The experience is frightening, or it was to me. I worried about having an infection that the Amoxicillin wasn't prepared for. And after 2 days of discomfort, I called my dentist office again and requested an early visit to their kind and stabby domicile. They assented, and I found myself once again leaning back in a chair as another masked women poked at my teeth and asked me if I felt any pain.

Nope. None there. Just the impending implosion of my maxilla as it all burst inwards.

They said my gums appeared to be a bit agitated, but looked to be healing well. But decided to up my anti-biotic to ten day regimen of augmentin. The sister informed me that I am in line for a nice case of Thrush. A fungal infection that is often suffered by people who take heavy doses of anti-biotics.

I thanked her kindly for setting another anxiety in my path. Just what I needed.

But, they placed a medicated pack into my wounded gum and placed more gauze over the newest edition to my jaw. Really, there was room, as now there were 2 holes just sitting there. Waiting to be filled. Don't read anything into that.

The effect was rather quick. The pain went away. And then they packed my face with some more gauze. Really, I think that I'm developing a pathological fear of gauze, soft as it may be. Gauze seems to manufacture saliva, and as I was driving back to work about a gallon seemed to materialize in my mouth. And there it sat, as spitting is impossible as you try to keep a wad of gauze clenched between your teeth. All you can do is open the flood gates and release a tsunami of drool.

When I returned to work, I felt fantastic. The lack of pain left me feeling energetic and happy. That lasted until the following morning. After yet another night of rough sleep, the pain returned. Thursday was a eternal.

I was noticing a rather large hole in the back of my jaw, were the wisdom tooth usta been. A gap in the gums through which you could see all the way to the bone. That folks, is dry socket. The cause of my pain. To paraphrase the eloquence of The Iron Sheik – THE DRY SOCKET IS A JABRONI, FUCK THE DRY SOCKET LIKE THE MONDAY!

Friday seemed longer. Felt crappy. Even though the pain receded. Only had to make it until that evening for endgame(probably not, the way my luck runs). I returned to the dentist office for hopefully for the last time, to finally have my sutures removed.

The Dr. wasn't about for the sutures. But one of the 4 Hygienists I've seen over the course of the week was able to step up. Which is how I found myself in yet another chair, being poked by a new set of tools.

She found a sliver of bone sticking out of my gum and plucked that, before removing the sutures proper. And then re-packing my face with a syringe full of gel called Sockit! Sockit! Is wonderful. I don't know how well it works. But I love puns. And it seems to be keeping my pain at bay.

Hopefully this is all over soon.

I don't think that I have the fortitude to live with chronic pain. I wonder how people manage to live like that, and don't know if they inspire me or not. I think I might be inclined to take the easier way out, as all Princess' must. That is, picking a knife-fight against a biker gang in some Mexican dive, giving a good account of myself, before finally going down for good.

It's our way.